


Finger Painting in the Dark

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression, Amnesia, Brain Injury, Broken Bones, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Kidnapping, Memory Loss, Murder, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Torture, Trauma, Violence, Whump, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 11,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is kidnapped and tortured by Moriarty. The aftermath is horrific, and no one is sure if things could ever go back to normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably explain this a bit. This story came about because I had a plot bunny. In order to get to the plot bunny, I ended up with 7 pages of basically torturing Sherlock, which is not my usual MO. But it's seriously hard to break Sherlock Holmes, so it is needed.  
> But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt to write.

He didn't realize he'd been drugged until it was too late, when the colours had already begun to blur together and smear like a finger painting.

At least he collapsed to the ground slowly and not all of a sudden. His head would thank him later for that.

 

He awoke in the dark, making it impossible for him to deduce anything about his surroundings other than what he could touch, which was very little considering he was handcuffed to something.

It was silent. Sherlock wasn't sure if that was good or not. He took a quick inventory of his body. Nothing broken, nothing too damaged, so it wasn't likely that he'd been beaten. Yet anyway.

Because if this was Moriarty (like he thought it would be) then there would be plenty of that. Later. All in good time.

_Kill you? No, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special._

Sherlock didn't want to think about what that meant. Burning him, burning his heart out. There was an entire list of ways Moriarty could do that, none of them remotely pleasant for Sherlock to think about. And of course, there were always the ways Sherlock hadn't even thought of. The consulting criminal would probably be good at that, coming up with new ways to torture him, destroy him.

That was, if it was Moriarty. In which case, he should be making his entrance soon.

He could hardly wait.

 

He fell asleep some indeterminate time later, the perpetual darkness completely screwing with his already out of balance sleep cycle. He only awoke when felt himself being prodded, gently at first, then harder. 

He jerked away, wrenching his wrists, still in the handcuffs attached to whatever it was.

Someone had turned a light on, and although it was pitiful, it was enough for him to see Moriarty beaming at him, glad that his new plaything was ready.

Sherlock sighed, and peered over his shoulder to see what he was cuffed to. A pipe.

_How dull._

Sherlock sighed again.

“Oh no, that won't do,” the man fretted, smirking at Sherlock as he spotted his bruising wrists.

He pulled a key out from one of the pockets of his suit and unlocked Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock rubbed his aching wrists, pondering if he could attack Moriarty and kill him before anyone came to his rescue.

Probably unwise, at least until he knew what he was up against.

Still... Punching him in the face should be okay. And oh so rewarding. 

But before he could take the swing, before he could even pull back his arm, Sherlock fell to the ground and fell hard, landing on his elbow with a crack, jarring his chin, and making his already sore head ache.

He groaned, not just in pain, but in annoyance. His feet were still cuffed together, which he'd managed not to notice.

Moriarty tutted. “Bad boy,” he murmured, yanking up Sherlock's head by the chin to look at him. Sherlock hissed in pain. Moriarty smirked. “That's what you get for being naughty!” he trilled, dropping Sherlock's head back down on the cold floor before walking away. 

“I was going to play with you, but you're obviously too naughty for that. Perhaps after my friends teach you some lessons?” he nodded to two men who must have been lurking in the shadows, now emerging.

“La'erz!” he called throwing a hand up as a goodbye. 

Sherlock realized that this was not going to go well.

 _Obvious,_ he scolded himself. 

But... really not well.


	2. Chapter 2

A well placed kick to the head near the beginning of the beating ensured that Sherlock was unconscious for the rest of it, which he couldn't decide was good or not. He finally settled on good, figuring that the men would have soon grown bored of him not crying out in pain or reacting at all. He woke up what must have been the next morning, his head aching along with the rest of his being. What he would give to have John mothering him, forcing him to take paracetamol and rest on the couch all day.

Sherlock suddenly wondered what John was doing at that exact second. Sleeping? Eating? Blogging? Had he even noticed Sherlock was gone?

But there wasn't enough time for Sherlock to worry over that, because Moriarty entered the room.

“Rise and shine Sherlock!” he sang, practically prancing in to greet him.

Sherlock decided at that moment, if Anderson ever called him a psychopath again, he would kill him. Because he never wanted to thought of as anything at all similar to this man. Because there was no word for what Sherlock felt towards him. Loathing barely scratched the surface. Rage was like a tickle. And angry was common, too mundane, not at all capable of describing this feeling Sherlock felt towards this man.

Because he had gone past the seeing red stage. He was calm.

Sherlock forced himself to smile at Moriarty.

“And what does sir have planned for today?”

“Since you ruined all the fun I had for yesterday, I planned something even better for today!” He beamed at Sherlock, who was simply too exhausted to respond.

He blinked at him.

“Oh, are you tired?” Moriarty asked, a sense of false sympathy in his voice. “Did little Sherlock not sleep well?”

Sherlock only blinked again.

“Well too bad,” he snapped. “That's what you get for misbehaving.”

He straightened up again. “Undo his legs,” he ordered someone, and Sherlock felt his legs being freed from the handcuffs. “Get up,” Moriarty demanded him, and Sherlock struggled to even find where his feet were.

Apparently that was not quick enough for the consulting criminal, who grabbed Sherlock by the elbow he'd fallen on last night, pulling him by it.

Sherlock groaned, unable to hold it in.

“Oh, I'm sorry, did that hurt?” Moriarty asked in false bewilderment.

Sherlock only gritted his teeth and shuffled forward in the direction Moriarty indicated, not trusting his feet his could find where they had to go if he removed them from the ground.

 

They ended up in a small control room, Moriarty shoving him into a chair. He was almost thankful for that, not sure if he could stand being vertical for much longer.

The room they were in was like an observation room at a surgery, looking down into a larger room with two beds and... his heart sank... two people strapped to those beds. They'd obviously been crying and were still struggling against the bonds, calling out to someone who may or may not have been there. They were both males, one substantially older than the other, probably by about twenty years, but they were not father and son.

“Aren't you curious?” Moriarty whispered in his ear. Sherlock startled and wished he hadn't, all of him aching again.

“About what?” Sherlock mumbled back, trying his best to sound bored.

“What they're here for,” Moriarty replied, like it should have been obviously. Like he was insulted by Sherlock's new-found stupidity.

But Sherlock's head hurt and it hurt to think and he couldn't concentrate on anything for longer than a sentence so he couldn't be bothered to figure this out although he was sure it had to be important.

“Enlighten me,” Sherlock said, utterly exhausted again.

“You're going to kill them,” Moriarty informed him. “Or one of them. You get to pick.”

Sherlock's brain was slow and sluggish about registering this.

“Why... Why would I kill them?”

“If you don't pick who to kill, they'll both die. And,” he added, grinning impossibly large, “I pick how they die and you get to watch.” He whispered the last bit in his ear.

Sherlock froze. “How am I supposed to decide?” he rasped.

Moriarty clapped his hands together in glee. “That's the best part! One of these men is a rapist who's raped more than ten girls under the age of twelve, and the other man is completely innocent.” His eyes glimmered. “You get to figure out who is who, or not, you could just pick one at random,” he shrugged, like it didn't matter to him _(because it doesn't,_ Sherlock reminded himself _)_ “and then you get to pick a way to kill them. From a list, of course. Not just letting you run the show.” He shrugged.

“How... How long do I have?”

“To figure it out?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Five minutes.”

Sherlock scoped out both of the men, looking for any sort of indicators that pointed to one of the men being a serial rapist. It was hard, because they were both dressed in old dirty hospital gowns. _Are we in an old hospital?_ He shook his head. _No time for this._ But there was nothing. Sherlock's brain was too sluggish and time was slipping away and he just didn't know.

“Time's up!” Moriarty announced. “Time to pick a man, then pick a method.”

Sherlock froze.

“Tick tock Sherlock! If you don't pick one, they both die in the most painful way I can imagine.”

“The older one,” Sherlock blurted. “Kill the older one.”

“Alright!” he sang, handing Sherlock a piece of paper with scribbled writing on it. “Now pick a method. You can take your time with this. Don't want you to rush into anything.” He beamed at him. Sherlock was disgusted. He turned his attention to the list, forcing his eyes to focus on the words and his brain to think.

He skimmed the list and his heart sank. They were all horrible.

He chose one, one that he figured would be the least painful and jabbed a finger at it.

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. “Interesting...” He held up four fingers to the man standing in the room below them to indicate which method had been chosen. The man nodded and left the room, probably to get supplies.

Sherlock got up to go, struggling to push himself out of the chair without using his injured arm. But his legs weren't cooperating and it wasn't helping matters that Moriarty gently, but forcefully, pushed him back down.

“No, no...” Moriarty murmured in his ear. “You get to watch.” He forced Sherlock's head forward and he could hear his smile.

Sherlock watched as the older man's neck was slashed with a blade, watching the blood seep out onto the floor. No squirting, no arterial involvement. Of course. Slightly slower that way. More painful.

Sherlock watched until no more blood came from the man's neck. It was all on the floor, a red pool beneath the metal table.

“Was I right?” he whispered.

“About which man was which?”

Sherlock nodded.

Moriarty laughed, loudly and cruelly. “No. But that's hardly your fault. I lied, you see. Neither of them were rapists. I believe one was a teacher and the other was a father of three.” He shrugged, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to strangle him.

“You bastard,” he croaked, staring at him.

He grinned again.

“And the best part?” He smirked at Sherlock and held his hand up in the air, snapping his fingers.

There was a gunshot.

Sherlock spun around to look through the window. The remaining man, the younger one who'd had to watch the older man die, screaming in agony, had been shot in the stomach. He was moaning now, his face already stained with sympathetic tears. Sherlock wondered if he'd have any left to cry for himself as he died. Because Sherlock knew what would happen. He would be left there to bleed out. John had told him that it was a horrible way to die, from a gunshot wound to the abdomen.

He wasn't furious anymore. He was numb.

Moriarty led Sherlock back to his cell, dragging him along roughly when he stumbled. He shoved Sherlock in and his feet weren't able to catch up. He fell on his outstretched arm, the one he was sure he'd broken the other day. He knew it hurt. But everything hurt and nothing hurt.

He sobbed then, hot messy tears that refused to quit once they'd started. Eventually he managed to stop gasping, the tears slowing to a trickle.

He lay there, curled up on himself. He didn't know how long he lay there. He didn't care.

John would come. Sherlock knew it with every inch of his being. John would come. And Sherlock would wait until then.

He had to.


	3. Chapter 3

The same thing happened the next day, this time with two girls. One was a teenager, perhaps sixteen years old, and the other was in her thirties.

Moriarty gave him the same choice.

He didn't say anything, barely blinked, even as Moriarty shouted in his face to get a response.

Moriarty lived up to his promise.

He killed them both, burned them alive.

Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. He kept hearing their screams, kept seeing the flames as they melted their skin. Every time he closed his eyes, the sight was burned into the backs of his eyelids. Their faces looked to him, pleading.

But he'd just sat there and watched them die.

Some time later he lashed out, screaming and throwing himself against the walls of his room, yanking at the pipe he'd been handcuffed to at the beginning.

Apparently he'd been disturbing someone's sleep because three men were sent in to beat him up.

When it was done, he was pretty sure his arm had been rebroken, he'd received another concussion complete with a bleeding head wound, and several of his ribs had broken. He wondered about a punctured lung, since he couldn't seem to catch his breath, but couldn't decide if it was from the shock of it all or not.

That would be suiting. Sherlock Holmes in shock. In need of a blanket and his army doctor.

But other people were sent in, ones with efficient hands who stabbed needles in his chest and he could breathe again.

They didn't touch anything else, didn't stitch up the head wound, didn't set his arm.

Moriarty just wanted him alive to torture, and none of the other wounds were going to kill him.

 

It was a while before the next victims. It was impossible to tell how long, between the concussions and the pain, the days all blurred together.

 

The next two were children, a boy and a girl, likely siblings based on the similar features.

Moriarty gave him longer to decide this time, acting as though it was a favour for Sherlock, knowing that it was only making matters worse. Sherlock was forced to look at their faces longer, deduce things about them, see how terrified and alone they were.

“Boy,” he said finally.

Moriarty handed him the list. It had changed since the last time. These ones were worse.

Sherlock shoved the list back at him after looking it over.

“Two.”

Moriarty held up two fingers and the man in the room obeyed.

Sherlock averted his eyes as the young boy was cut from neck to groin. He could hear the screams and that was enough. Finally, his screams subsided and the only cries came from the girl. Sherlock couldn't even fathom what Moriarty had planned for her. After the first one, it didn't seem likely that she'd survive.

“Just shoot her in the head. Please,” he looked at Moriarty, practically begging him to just shoot her.

Moriarty grinned, a smile that almost made Sherlock physically sick.

“I'm not going to kill her!” he said in mock shock. “I'm going to let her go home. Let her go back to Mummy and Daddy and explain how she had to watch her brother gutted in front of her, all because he man in the window said so. Won't that be fun?” Moriarty declared, clasping his hands together.

Sherlock only glared at him.

Moriarty smirked. “Don't be so angry. I thought this what was you wanted. Me to let her go?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't want anything at the moment other than the man standing before him to be dead, dead, dead.

He didn't make any motion to go and strong arms heaved him up and out of the chair, dragging him back to his room. He knew the route by now, even with his eyes closed.

Out the door, a left, down the hallway a bit, another door, one flight of stairs down, another door, down the hallway, a right, down the hallway some more, and his room was on the left.

_Home sweet home._

It wasn't until he was lying on the floor in the dark again that he realized he'd bitten his tongue so hard to keep from screaming in pain, that it was bleeding.

He would have laughed if he'd had the energy.

He slept.


	4. Chapter 4

There were two more sets of victims, the worst being a pregnant woman. Sherlock had decided there was nothing he could do, nothing that would make this less painful, so he just didn't do anything. He just watched. He didn't want to be the one to choose the pain they suffered through, didn't want to be the one responsible. So he didn't do anything.

There was so much blood, so much pain, so many screams.

It was a train wreck, a crime scene, a dead body. He couldn't look away but couldn't bear to watch it all the same. The baby was torn from the woman's stomach and she screamed as he was suffocated in front of her. Then she was left to bleed to death, holding her lifeless son.

The other woman didn't make a sound as her leg was carved to the bone, tears streaming silently down her face as she watched the sobbing mother.

Sherlock noticed he was crying too.

The other two men were poisoned and Sherlock had to watch as they suffered through all the stages together, clinging to each other in the corner as they both died painfully.

There were no more victims after that. Apparently Moriarty had decided he'd had enough fun with that.

 

He moved on to torturing Sherlock, apparently trying to get a noise out of the silent detective.

There was another beating that broke his nose and gave him his third concussion, as well as countless bruises and lacerations.

He didn't make a peep.

There was a man who was rather skilled with a knife, impressively so, who took great pleasure in carving up Sherlock like a piece of meat.

He still didn't make a noise and was left sticking to the floor with countless wounds.

A man wrapped him up in bandages. It wouldn't do for him to die from an infection.

 

Then there was nothing for a while. He was left alone in the dark.

 

So very alone.

So very dark.

So very broken.

John would never have him back now; John wouldn't want someone broken.

Sherlock curled up in a ball and failed at trying not to cry.

Add that to the list. Failure.

He fell asleep like that.

 

Then they drugged him with something that he hadn't tried before. It must have been a hallucinogenic, because he saw things, things that couldn't have been real. Things he hoped weren't real.

John.

John being beaten in the same room that all those people had died in, Sherlock being forced to watch. Mrs Hudson's lifeless body. Lestrade being tortured.

Horrible, horrible things.

But Moriarty could never have gotten all of them, could he?

He hoped and prayed that he was still lying on the floor, someone whispering nightmares into his ear that he couldn't awaken from.


	5. Chapter 5

When he awoke, seemingly drug free, there was no indication of which was true.

He hurt with every fibre of his being. His bruises, broken bones, his head, his thoughts, his torn skin, and his heart.

Yes, his heart hurt the most. It was heavy, like if he stood, it may sink to his feet and fall out of him. He almost wished it could, because then it would be over.

_John will come for me._

 

They drugged him again the next day, perhaps. It was impossible to tell the passage of time. The only thing he had to go on what the healing of his injuries, which was vague at best considering his immune system had far more important things to worry about that patching up his skin.

They drugged him again, with what he couldn't be sure. He wasn't sure about anything anymore.

It was one of the things he feared the most- not being able to trust his own mind.

He was fairly certain the butterflies flitting around the room were not real, but the bloodied broken man in the corner... well, he just hoped that he wasn't real.

Sherlock couldn't bear if that had been done to his John.

It was dark again.

 

He stayed like that for a long time, ages, decades, lifetimes, drifting in and out of consciousness, hearing voices that may have been real, spotting shoes and hearing the footsteps, seeing other people that came and went, all of them bloody and broken. He hoped they weren't real. The beatings continued, but slowed, or at least seemed to.

He wondered how he didn't completely fade away, sustained on nothing but tears and the taste of his own blood.

 

He wished he could will himself to die, force his heart to stop beating, for it all just to _stop._

He would give anything for it to stop.

Except John.

 

When he woke next it was white. Sherlock wondered briefly if it had worked, if he'd finally died. If he actually willed himself to stop _being_ and this was it. The end.

Because it was white. So white. Like heaven would be, if it were real. But it's not, because he talked to Mycroft about it. They agreed that it would be impossible. Where is Mycroft?

It's white. And very bright, so much so that he had to squint to keep his eyes open.

And soft. The walls look soft. Like clouds, or marshmallows.

Sherlock had once eaten a handful of marshmallows. They were soft and air filled and he delighted in crushing them in his mouth, seeing how small he could get them. But Mummy didn't like him eating the marshmallows and he was sent to his room.

John had given him marshmallows in his hot chocolate once, but Sherlock had stared at the cup like it was foreign. John didn't add marshmallows after that.

Sherlock suspected Mycroft had been involved somehow, and loathed him for interfering with _his_ John.

“John,” he mumbled. “John.” Where was he? “John!” he yelled.

 _John isn't coming for you,_ a cruel voice told him. _He doesn't want you, remember? You're broken. No one wants a broken man to take care of._

No no no no. John would always come for him. Always.

He closed his eyes, hoping for the dark again. The white was too painful.

It gave him hope.

 

He became aware of a murmuring. No, not a murmur... a hum? But not in any words he could understand. Not English. Nor was it in any other language he could understand. But it was quiet and low and soothing and it made him feel safe.

He slept.

 

It was there again, the same thing, the same soothing melody, murmured at him by a familiar voice. It couldn't be... Sherlock had not wanted John to become involved, in fact it was the last thing he wanted.

 _Run John,_ he wanted to say. _Run now before it's too late._ And he struggled but hands held him down and John just kept singing to him what must have been a lullaby.

A Gaelic lullaby.

John just kept singing and singing until Sherlock couldn't hear him anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

Twenty seven days. John knew exactly how long twenty seven days were. Six hundred and forty eight hours. Thirty-eight thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes. Two million, three hundred and thirty two thousand, eight hundred seconds.

Each of them spent panicking.

 

Until he'd been found.

Mycroft had finally done it. Finally found him. He had half of London's armed forces, heavens knows where they came from, and no less than three dozen heavily armed CO19, SO12, and MOD men storm an abandoned hospital outside of London.

They'd found him there. Sherlock. Broken and bruised and battered and barely breathing but _alive._

John could have cried with relief. Did, in fact, but no one else needs to know that, least of all Sherlock.

They also found Moriarty and half a dozen of his henchmen including Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's seeming second in command.

 

Sherlock had been taken to hospital. John had only caught a glimpse before he was taken to surgery, impossibly thin, dirty, and covered with blood. So much blood. Dried blood. John prayed it wasn't all his, not even sure if that would be better or worse.

 

He collapsed into a chair in the surgery waiting room and cried. He hadn't cried since Sherlock had gone missing, hell, couldn't even remember the last time he did actually cry, but if he was going to cry at any point in his life, you'd think it would be sometime when your friend went missing for nearly a month. But not John. He waited until Sherlock returned to cry. Tears of joy rather than of pain.

Perhaps a little pain. Pain for him, pain for what the future would bring.

But not tears of loss.

He fell asleep like that, sobbing like an infant.

 

He awoke in a hospital bed, Mycroft sitting near him looking exhausted.

“Thought you'd be more comfortable,” he noted, referring to the bed.

John nodded wearily, not even bothering to protest at obviously being carried here by someone.

“Still in surgery,” Mycroft added as an afterthought.

John nodded again, collapsing back into the pillows.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep again; it just happened.

 

John awoke because of the slightest sound, hesitant footsteps entering the room. Something no other man would notice, including Mycroft, who'd fallen asleep in his chair. John took a second to notice how exhausted he looked, how much this incident had aged him, before looking to what had drawn his attention in the first place.

A doctors, most likely a surgeon. _Sherlock's surgeon._

John shifted a little on the bed, and it squeaked, awakening Mycroft, who could go from dead asleep to ready for battle in no time flat. It was rather impressive.

“Mr Holmes is out of surgery,” he said, glancing between them. “He's in recovery now, if you'd like to see him.”

“How is he?” John asked, surprised at how steady his voice was for just having woken up, and only been crying before that.

The surgeon studied him and chose his words carefully before he spoke.

“He's stable, but still in critical condition.”

John nodded and threw his feet over the bed. He looked to Mycroft, who nodded at him. John followed the surgeon to where Sherlock was.


	7. Chapter 7

 It took him a while to catalogue his injuries, first inspecting his body, then examining his chart for all the internal ones he couldn't see.

It wasn't just that there was a lot of them, which there was, but John couldn't help but think about how he'd received each injury, the pain it must have caused him, and how old it was.

 

He started with the arm, the elbow to be exact, which was broken. It had required surgery and pins, given that the bone had already started to heal in the wrong position. It had been rebroken at least once during his course of captivity and must have caused Sherlock a great deal of pain. It was probably broken on the first day. It was now casted in a white bulky thing that Sherlock would curse for weeks to come.

 

There were the cuts, fairly large and relatively recent, within the last week. They were mostly confined to his back and the scabs were well developed, but hadn't really started to heal yet. It didn't help that Sherlock had been malnourished, which slowed the recovery process. The wounds had been bandaged at least, which had prevented him from getting a massive infection that could have killed him before Mycroft had discovered his location.

 

There was the broken ribs, lots of them, some broken more than once, including the one that had punctured his lung. Someone had pierced him with a needle for that, obviously wanting to keep him alive, but in what shape?

John shook his head and moved on.

 

His nose was broken, only once which was pretty good. He had multiple lacerations on his head, probably from being beaten and from falling down, which had likely caused the concussions. Plural. Frankly, that was what John was most concerned about, given that Sherlock had at least three concussions in his twenty seven days being held captive.

 

The man was black and blue and varying shades of yellow and red, bruises covering literally every inch of his body, but he was relatively lucky. There had been no internal bleeding, no majorly broken bones, and no massive head trauma. The head scans had shown minimal swelling, so it wasn't likely that Sherlock would have any lasting brain damage.

 

He was skinnier than John ever thought possibly, severely malnourished and somewhat dehydrated, but that could be fixed. Was already being fixed with feeding tubes and central lines that delivered nutrients right to his blood, saving all the energy of having to digest it. He was intubated and heavily sedated, trapped inside his head while his transport patched itself up.

 

All they had to do what wait. Wait while Sherlock's body regained its strength and healed itself, wait until he was strong enough to reduce the sedation, wait for him to wake up and insult them and everyone else, utterly pissed about being in a hospital.

It was times like these John wished he was a more patient man.


	8. Chapter 8

The week went on, dragging its feet behind it. John didn't leave his bedside, holding his hand to reassure him that he was there, humming a lullaby to him that he dug out of the recesses of his mind. His mother must have sung it to him. Or perhaps one of the nurses when he was hospitalized. But whatever it was, the words seemed to have been seared into his brain, despite being in a language he didn't speak, didn't even know what it was. But it seemed to soothe Sherlock, his heart rate calming and the EEG showing different wave patterns.

 

Lestrade showed up a couple times, keeping John updated on the utter lack of information he had about Sherlock's abduction and torture. John didn't blame him.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. John ignored him the first three times he came, or perhaps it was the same visit, just disappearing from John's line of sight temporarily to rule the world or something.

The fourth time, several days later, Mycroft was not content with being ignored.

But John knew it he spoke to him, the rage that had been stewing for a month would burst out, all at once, and he didn't want Sherlock to have to hear that. Even though he was in a drug induced coma, there was no telling what he was aware of.

Because John was absolutely pissed with Mycroft. For everything. For Moriarty, for Sherlock's abduction despite the 'protection' he had surrounding him, for taking so bloody long to find him, for what he did with the man, who'd 'vanished' since being apprehended.

John may have been so shocked at Sherlock's rescue that he'd tolerated Mycroft, seemed almost polite to him, but the initial joy and shock of having Sherlock returned, alive, wore off quickly to be replaced by rage. And this time, Mycroft was not going to settle for being ignored.

 

It finally ended in a shouting match between them that got them thrown out of the ICU and not so kindly told not to come back until the next day when they had both eaten and slept.

They walked out together, both of them feeling stupid and foolish, not to mention exhausted.

John didn't even argue when Mycroft told him to get in the car.

He didn't take him back to Baker street. They went further, to just outside of London, to a large country home.

“Our family home,” Mycroft told him wearily.

He was pointed to a large bedroom, one of what must have been many, with its own ensuite bathroom. There were pyjamas waiting for him. John didn't question how they got there, or how Mycroft knew he'd be coming back with him, just threw them on and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the ridiculously soft pillow.

 

He didn't wake until the sun was making its way well into the sky and the vague scents of breakfast were wafting into the hallway as he stuck his head outside the door of his room.

He threw his clothes on, miraculously cleaned, and followed his nose.

Mycroft was sitting at a large dining room table, something that seemed more suited to the Christmas dinners John had heard about than an informal brunch. He looked decidedly less weary this morning, John decided as he sat down, realizing he was starving.

Mycroft nodded to him and John heaped a plate full of actual food, not that stuff they tried to pass for real food in the hospital.

 

“I'd like to talk before we return to the hospital,” Mycroft said when John was finishing up his plate, stuffed and rather content.

John eyed him. He didn't want to, but what choice did he have?

“Fine.”

He followed Mycroft to a study and sat down in the chair Mycroft directed him to.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft began, and then stopped, almost as if he was unsure of his words. Never had John seen Mycroft unsure of what to say, or even remotely at a loss for words. Suddenly, he felt very, very afraid. “John,” he restarted. “I'm sorry.”

John blinked. He wasn't expecting this.

Mycroft continued. “I'm sorry that I couldn't keep Sherlock safe, or get him back before he got hurt. I'm sorry that I didn't take care of Moriarty long ago and prevent all of this suffering. I hope you can understand how... difficult this is for me as well.”

John nodded, speechless. Mycroft appeared to be finished, which was good. John wasn't sure he could handle anymore emotions from the man.

“Shall we, um, go then?” John prompted.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, getting up. The facade of a perfectly put together man was in place again, although John was sure he spotted some cracks.

They rode back to the hospital in silence, Mycroft's assistant not-Anthea joining them, tapping away on her phone.

 

Mycroft only stayed for a brief visit, leaving after half an hour, his assistant trailing behind him, not missing a step even though her eyes never strayed from her phone. John wondered if she'd had special training for that.

It was the seventh day of Sherlock's hospital stay. _And on the seventh day..._

John may have slept, but his brain was still foggy.

At least Sherlock was doing better. John had to look closely to see his ribs beneath the hospital gown now, and he'd been extubated. The cuts on his back were healing nicely and his EEG showed normal activity. They'd even lightened the sedation.

John just watched him breathe for hours, watching the comforting rise and fall of his chest that he wasn't sure he'd ever see again only a week ago.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock drifted just below the surface of consciousness that day, stirring occasionally, but never breaking through. John knew it would be asking a lot for Sherlock to wake up and be lucid, to reassure John that although he'd been gone, things hadn't changed that much. But this was Sherlock, a man seemingly incapable of being held back by boundaries, just as he'd proven time and time before, and John hoped would again.

 

Sherlock finally blinked his eyes open, John watching him intently, still clutching his hand. He waited for a few minutes for Sherlock's eyes to finally focus on him before speaking to him.

“Sherlock?” he said gently. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock scanned him, but not in the usual way. John didn't feel like he was being scrutinized or studied like one of his experiments. It was much too soft for that. Much too human.

He waited until Sherlock had finished before talking to him again.

“Sherlock?” he prompted.

Sherlock blinked at him.

“Thirsty...” he muttered.

John handed him a cup of juice with a straw. “Drink some of this,” he told him.

Sherlock sipped at it for a moment before speaking again.

“Mycroft,” he whispered. John had to strain to hear him, and even then wasn't sure he heard correctly.

“Mycroft?” he repeated.

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you want him to come?”

Another nod.

John nodded back.

“Okay. I'll be right back.” Except it was hard to be back when you couldn't leave in the first place, long violinist's fingers clutching onto your arm for dear life.

“John,” Sherlock pleaded, looking at him with those eyes. _Those eyes._ “Please don't go,” he begged. He sounded so childlike and innocent. Almost vulnerable.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said gently, prying Sherlock's fingers off his arm. “Drink your juice.” Sherlock nodded and turned back to his cup.

John stepped into the hallway to make the call to Mycroft.

“Yeah, hi. He's awake and asking for you.”

He answered Mycroft's questions briefly, warning him about the personality changes which would hopefully only be temporary.

_He's just disoriented and has woken up from a week long induced coma. And before that he was held captive for almost a month. God knows what they did to him. Give the man a break._

Sherlock did his best to look like he hadn't been listening to the conversation, but his 'I'm not guilty' face seemed to have lost something.

John smiled at him and pointed towards the juice again.

“Drink up. Mycroft is on his way.”

 

Mycroft arrived half an hour later, and during that time, John had become seriously concerned about Sherlock's mental status, so much so that he pulled Mycroft into the hall for a chat before Sherlock could see him.

“Mycroft,” he said urgently. “It's like he's a child. You know how we're always saying he's childish? Well this is entirely different. It's like he's regressed.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Have you spoken to his doctors?”

John shook his head. “He's anxious as it is, I don't want to leave him alone, and I certainly don't want to talk to his doctors in front of him.”

Mycroft nodded. “Understood. I'll speak with them after I visit with Sherlock. You said he was asking for me?”

John nodded.

Without further ado, Mycroft strode into the room, John scampering along behind. Damned if he was gonna miss out on this.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock had managed to stay awake since he'd awoken with John, but was fast fading, and seemed to regress further the more tired he was.

“Hello Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted, in a tone that was almost... warm. John gaped a little.

“My? What're you doing here?”

“I believe you wanted to see me.”

Sherlock struggled to try and sit up, but John held him down with a firm hand.

“Just lay down Sherlock. You need to rest.”

Sherlock nodded to John, and turned his attention back to his brother. “Yeah. I don't like hospitals My. I want to go home,” he pleaded.

“Soon,” Mycroft reassured him. “You have to get a bit better first. Do you remember what happened?”

Biting his lip, Sherlock shook his head.

John's heart practically melted at the sight, seeing the young Sherlock expressed in the adult body.

“It's okay. You just need to rest now. Do you remember John?” Mycroft was choosing his words carefully, and that made John uneasy.

Sherlock squinted at him, struggling to keep his eyes open.

He nodded slightly. “But I dunno where...” he slurred.

“It's okay,” Mycroft said, patting him on the shoulder. John saw him wince slightly. Typical, even as a child Sherlock wouldn't have been one to express pain. “Go to sleep.”

Sherlock nodded, and curled imperceptibly around his touch. His breathing evened out within minutes and he was fast asleep.

Mycroft looked at John and they left the room, Mycroft's assistant not-Anthea staying in the room with Sherlock. John wondered what her name was today. She looked at him as he left and grinned, like she knew what he was thinking. If she worked with Mycroft, she probably did.

 

Mycroft got right down to it with the doctors, John mostly just standing back so he wouldn't get hurt in case things started flying. That what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, isn't it?

“What did the tests show?”

The doctor shook his head. “Nothing new. Nothing that would explain this. Physically, there is no reason for this kind of brain damage, so it's more likely that it's a coping mechanism as a result of his ordeal.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth imperceptibly. “So you're telling me there's nothing that you can do, nothing that can be done.”

“Give him time to heal, physically. Then you can work on his mental well being. Anyone who's sustained those injuries is guaranteed to have some emotional and mental issues to work through. When he's ready, I can recommend a couple of therapists-”

“No,” John interjected, shaking his head. “He won't go to therapy. And anyone who's ever met him knows that you can't get him to do anything he doesn't want to.”

The doctor nodded to him. “Still, I'll give you some names. You can't make him do anything, but it's good to know there are options.”

“You still haven't answered my question.” Mycroft didn't look pleased. “Why has this happened?”

“Mr Holmes, your brother has been through an extremely traumatic experience. From what I've been told, he was held hostage and tortured for nearly a month. Even the strongest of men can't endure that without some damage that can't be seen. His physical injuries are testament to what he's been through. My best guess is that he managed to hide the memories away from himself, almost even dissociate from them, in order to maintain his sanity.”

John smiled sadly. “That was iffy to begin with.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft told the doctor stiffly, and headed back to be with Sherlock, for however long until the government started to collapse without him.

“I'll be right there,” John told him. Mycroft nodded.

He turned his attention back to the doctor. “Sherlock often talks about his mind palace, a sort of memory device, and even mentions deleting things. Could that be what happened here?”

The man nodded. “Perhaps he's locked the experience of what happened away, but somehow managed to lock too much of it away. It's all a matter of finding the right key, but when he does, he may not be prepared for what else he finds.”

John nodded. “Thank you. Really. Don't mind him; he's always like that,” he said, referring to Mycroft.

“I've seen worse,” the doctor laughed.

“I bet you have. I once had a man punch me.” John replied with a smile. The memory was amusing now, but then, not so much.

“You're a doctor too?”

John nodded.

“Ex-army doctor.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I'd better get back.”

The man nodded to him. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

They both knew he'd need it.

 

Mycroft had gone by the time John returned, and Sherlock was still asleep. John did the same, drifting into dreams of horror and bloodshed, knowing all the while it could never compare to what Sherlock lived through, and what was now locked away in one of the recesses of his mind.

He hoped that things would be better in the morning.


	11. Chapter 11

They were, slightly. Sherlock was able to stay awake for longer, and doctors were in and out, performing more tests and asking him what he remembered. Lestrade stopped by, looking for a statement which Sherlock was unable to give.

“It's okay,” Lestrade told him, patting him on the knee as he got out of his chair. “It can wait until you're ready.”

Sherlock, looking a bit teary, nodded.

John walked Lestrade to the door.

“Blimey John,” Lestrade whispered, running his hand through his hair. “What did that bastard do to him?”

John could only shrug.

“Keep me updated, okay?”

“Of course.”

Lestrade left and John returned to comfort Sherlock, succeeding with a popsicle from one of the nurses and a puzzle from the paediatric floor.

They didn't talk about what had happened.

 

Eventually, a psychiatrist was sent in and John was sent out. It was an hour of hell, ending with Sherlock in tears when John was allowed back in. He held him as he fell asleep and sang to him. He must have fallen asleep like that, because when he awoke, there was a report waiting for him, courtesy of Mycroft most likely. It detailed the events that had taken place while he was banished from the room, clearly pointed out Sherlock's mental shortcomings, and generally listed all the ways in which he was broken.

 

Sherlock had no memory of his time gone, which was unusual, but not too far out of the ordinary for someone who'd been held captive for so long. John tried to tell himself that, over and over again, that Sherlock had just been coping in the only way he could, blocking the memories off in a separate room of his mind palace, locking the door and throwing away the key.

And John would have been okay with that, not pleased, but he could have dealt with it, even suspected it may be better for everyone. Except that wasn't all. Somehow, Sherlock had managed to erase many years of his life, reverting to child like behaviour, forgetting all the cases they'd worked on, the existence of Moriarty, the life and career that he had built himself.

Except John. He remembered John.

It must have been the most confusing thing for Sherlock, remembering a man, but not knowing how you knew him, what his relationship was to you, or even knowing what he meant. But Sherlock knew that John was someone important, someone who would keep him safe, and someone who cared for him.

Sherlock had kept him. John didn't know whether to cry or be overjoyed. He settled for perplexed, a strange combination of both. This couldn't last forever and he had to figure out how to fix it. Sherlock's brain would recover, he'd get over the trauma, and he'd remember the life that he's built for himself from the ruins of drug addiction and a world that told him he couldn't.

He had to.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was discharged three days later, hardly recovered enough to be going home, but that part of him had remained intact, his intense dislike for hospitals and his knack to make everyone hate him by telling the truth no one wanted to see. Just went to show this wasn't a skill Sherlock had developed somewhere along the line, but he was truly born that way.

To be honest, John didn't know which was worse.

 

Sherlock hadn't remembered any of the specifics of their relationship, but had latched on to John fairly quickly, deducing the same things about him as when they'd first met.

“But... I know you,” Sherlock had said, looking confused. “How?”

“We share a flat together,” John informed him wearily. “On Baker street.”

Sherlock was silent for a minute, mulling it over. “Are we friends?”

John smiled. “Yes. You often say I'm your only friend, although I don't think that's quite true.”

Sherlock brightened at this. “I didn't think I had any friends.”

“Of course you do,” John reassured him. “There's me, and there's your brother, and there's Mrs Hudson, and Greg Lestrade, and Molly, and Mike...” he trailed off. “I suppose it doesn't help to list them.”

Sherlock shook his head.

 

John just kept reminding himself, _this isn't the Sherlock you know. This is a dissociated Sherlock with parts of himself hidden away to keep himself from breaking. And I know it seems impossible for Sherlock to break, but he was gone for twenty seven bloody days with Moriarty, a man who is an utter psychopath and there is no telling what he did to him. Sherlock just needs time._

And John kept hoping and praying that things would go back to normal, because it hurt to see a Sherlock who looked at the wall of the flat and didn't know where the smiley face had come from, who hugged Mrs Hudson when she brought him cookies, who looked disgusted at the thought of a head in the fridge. That wasn't his Sherlock.

It hurt because John Watson was not a patient man.

 

Sherlock settled back into like at Baker street without many problems. He took an instant liking to Mrs Hudson, who managed to keep the tears at bay until Sherlock went upstairs with Mycroft. John held her as she sobbed.

“The poor boy,” she hiccuped, as John held her. “All bruised and broken like that. And that's all that you can see.” She pulled out of John's embrace for a moment. “Did they... was there any...” she teared up at the thought of it. “Did anyone force themselves...” she trailed off, unable to say it as she broke out in a fresh wave of tears.

“Oh,” John said stupidly. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. The hospital made sure. Just the broken arm and some ribs, lots of bruises, but no. God no, nothing like that. Some psychological damage, obviously but...” he shook his head vehemently, as though he could erase the thought from his mind.

“He's going to be fine Mrs Hudson,” he reassured her, although not entirely sure of it himself.

“Well of course he his,” Mrs Hudson replied adamantly, still sniffling. “He's our Sherlock after all.”

She pulled out of John's embrace, looking much more like the Mrs Hudson he'd come to recognize. “But don't think I'll be cooking for him or cleaning his bedroom. He can still do all that.”

John attempted a smile. “Of course.”

Mrs Hudson held his cheeks fondly. John wondered why she'd never had a child before remembering that whole thing with her husband. Pity, because she would have been a fabulous mother and an even better granny.

“Thank you,” he murmured, kissing her on the head before excusing himself. “I'd better get upstairs before Mycroft and Sherlock get in a big fight. God knows what could happen with Sherlock being more of a child than usual.”

Mrs Hudson smiled sadly at him and shooed him out the door.

Sure enough, Sherlock was holding up one of those paper tubes that wrapping paper came on, challenging Mycroft to a duel despite his obvious disadvantage of a broken arm.

Mycroft politely declined, and John sent him on his way before Sherlock decided he _had_ to fight him. For honour.

Sherlock settled down when John took the tube away and pointed him towards his laptop.


	13. Chapter 13

“I made soup for supper,” he informed Sherlock a couple of days later, popping his head into the living room. Sherlock had been fairly good about eating since he'd gotten home from the hospital, whether it had something to do with the amount of weight he'd lost, or just something that he'd deleted, John wasn't going to argue. Even if Sherlock was picky about what he ate.

“With crackers?”he asked, his face brightening.

“Of course.”

Sherlock practically beamed at John and returned to what he was doing.

John smiled sadly.

Sherlock had retreated to the couch that afternoon to play his violin. That skill had remained intact, although Sherlock had forgotten he knew how to, so he was shocked to pick it up and find his fingers picking out melodies without his knowledge. He was plucking out something mournful, in a minor key, that John hadn't heard before.

“Composing?” he called to Sherlock, who jerked his head in agreement.

A piece of paper sat next to him, covered in scribbles that John couldn't decipher, but meant something to Sherlock, his new form of writing music.

“It's nice,” he commented.

Sherlock ignored him and picked up his bow after scratching down some notes and numbers.

 

They ate soup together later, Sherlock slurping at his with gleeful abandon, and John couldn't help but smile. He'd never thought he'd see Sherlock so carefree, and he hated to remember that it was only because of such a horrible thing.

He tried not to think about that and focused instead on the noodles stuck to Sherlock's face and the mess of crackers he knew he'd have to clean up later.

 

Sherlock went to bed early that night, but John couldn't sleep. So he curled himself up in his chair with one of Sherlock's journals, reading about the various experiments he'd lived through, but had never known the reasons or results behind them. He was rather disappointed to find that the saliva coagulation results from the head in the fridge were inconclusive, and just hoped that Sherlock never decided to retry it, if _no, not if, when_ he regained his memory.

 

He must have fallen asleep there, reading over Sherlock's messy scrawls, marvelling at what had been going on that he'd never known. He was awoken by a whimpering that he recognized, having heard it almost every night since Sherlock had gotten home. He was having a nightmare.

John found that the only thing to do was crawl in bed with him, wrap his arms around tight, and sing to him. Sometimes he would even rock him like a mother would an infant, comforting him until the whimpering quieted and he fell asleep.

If people had seen them, they would have talked.

 _But people be damned,_ John figured.

 

They went on like that for days that seemed impossibly long, but didn't even stretch to make a week. Sherlock's arm began to heal, his bruises faded, and his many cuts were well on their way to scarring. John was patient about waiting for the memories to return, and knew that even if they did, Sherlock wouldn't be the same man. No one could go through something that had caused those injuries without being changed. (He would know.) He expected it to be gradual, a name here, a case there, perhaps some of his more notable experiments.

But Sherlock never did anything halfway. So when the memories came, they came crashing.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock knew that it was all different. He wasn't sure how, or why, but the moment he woke up in the hospital, John clutching his hand, feeling broken and torn and teary, he knew that it, _that he_ , wasn't the same. And every time he tried to talk about it with John, wondering what happened, how he'd gotten there, John carefully directed him towards something else that distracted him, often forgetting what he was going to ask until he was in bed later that night, already halfway to sleep.

 

He would wake up with nightmares and scream, and John would be there. John would hold him and whisper that he was safe, that he wouldn't let anything happen to him ever again. He would rock him back and forth like a baby, and he hated that it soothed him. He hated that he couldn't remember the nightmares, the wisps of them drifting away as soon as he opened his eyes. He could hold them in, pin them down and fit their pieces together to form a picture. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

 

And suddenly, it was like the fog had lifted. A tidal wave of memories can crashing down. The DVD stopped skipping the part he wanted to watch. The radio station was finally in tune, no static. His chemistry experiment had reached equilibrium. He got the perfect chord of notes to end the piece.

All of them and none of them. Because THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE THIS. It just _was._ He couldn't compare it, could try, but would fail, simply because there is nothing else.

 

He remembered. God it hurt, but he remembered.

What he did.

 

_Restore to earlier point, scroll, scroll, scroll... no, further further. He need to scrub his brain entirely clean of this, of EVERYTHING._

_Are you sure you want to proceed?_

_YES._

_So much yes._

 

And that was that.

But that wouldn't do, not at all. Because while it may have sheltered him from whatever happened, kept this part of him safe, he'd lost the other part of himself.

He _knew_ he was different. Didn't know how, but he just was.

It frightened him.

He wanted himself back.


	15. Chapter 15

He set about recovering the memories.

_God it's going to hurt like hell. It's going to remind me why I erased them to begin with._

_But nothing's ever gone for good..._ a voice whispered to him.

He cried.

Because it hurt. God it hurt. And he cried and John held him and he cried more, wracking sobs that left his chest heaving and him gasping for breath and tears that no longer came.

And he stopped and slept, but they were still there when he awoke, still just as harsh and raw and grating and he couldn't get away from them.

But he had to do it; had to remember.

He didn't know how long it took to get them all back, it could have been a day or a month, but he finally emerged, raw and vulnerable, scraped clean to the bone by the memories he'd tried to hide from himself.

 

And the whole while, John, bless him, was steadily _there._ Just a presence, never anything too much or too close, but he was just there.

 

“I remember,” he choked. “John, I _remember._ Everything,” he whimpered.

 

Sherlock slept it off that night, so to speak. John talked him into taking one of the heavy duty sleeping pills that they'd been given when he left the hospital and had refused to take until now.

He awoke in the morning still feeling like crap, but less raw and open.

John didn't press him for answers, just made him some breakfast that he didn't really eat.

Sherlock lounged on the couch after that, cuddling his violin closely. He missed it.

 

“Oh god,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“What?” John asked anxiously, fearing the worst.

“I let you make me soup. And I ate it. With crackers,” he sounded absolutely disgusted, and John couldn't help but giggle at the look on his face.

“What?” he snapped.

“That's all you have to say? You remember everything and you're complaining about soup?”

Sherlock's face darkened.

“It's all I want to say,” he said quietly.

John sobered. “Of course.”

They returned to sitting there in silence, Sherlock occasionally plucking at his violin, John's fingers pecking out a blog post, most likely.

“S'pose I should call Lestrade” John muttered.

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied, a response without responding.

“Mycroft'll already know,” John continued.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied.

So John called him, told him that Sherlock remembered, hung up, and went to make tea.

 _How very British of him,_ Sherlock figured with a smirk. _Anything gets difficult, just make some tea. Tea fixes a lot of things,_ he mused, thinking about that show John had made him watch where that was indeed true. He smirked at the thought as John handed him his cup.

“What?” John asked bemusedly.

“Tea,” Sherlock replied vaguely.

John rolled his eyes, but didn't push the subject. They both knew Lestrade would be doing enough of that.

They returned to their own little worlds, content to pretend everything was normal until they were no longer able to.


	16. Chapter 16

Lestrade came over.

He was patient while Sherlock struggled to get it out into words for him.

 

“A pregnant woman. Two men.” He paused. “There were eight in total... or maybe ten.”

He looked right at Lestrade, his eyes filled with pain, briefly, before returning his gaze to his lap.

“A child... there was one child who survived.”

He heard Lestrade's quick intake of breath, and looked back at him.

“Has there?...”

Lestrade nodded slightly, and that's all he needed.

Sherlock knew hearts couldn't break, they could only get crushed and tired and stop. But he honestly felt like his was breaking, shattering into shards of glass that rubbed against his lungs every time he took a breath.

_Perhaps if I just stop..._

But he can't, because he's tried already, and if that had worked he'd have been dead long ago and none of this would have happened.

“And is she... had she said...”

“Nothing,” Lestrade replied, shaking his head.

Sherlock attempted to laugh, but it sounded more like a wail. “I wouldn't blame her. She watched her brother die, bleed out from being sliced open like a Christmas turkey.”

Lestrade and John were silent, and Sherlock could tell they were thinking about him, about what he must have seen, the pain, the torment, and he _hated it._

“Shut up,” he demanded. They both looked at him, startled. “Stop thinking. It's annoying and not useful.”

They looked away, guilty.

“Ten dead,” he muttered.

Lestrade looked up. “I thought you said-”

“I did,” he snapped. “The girl made it out, but there were five sets, one of them being a pregnant woman. Think.”

John gasped but Sherlock ignored him.

“The baby was ripped from her and killed. They forced her to watch and then she held him as she died.” He continued despite the looks of horror from John and Lestrade. “I suspect there will be two bodies that will never be found, they were burned.”

He left off the last word, knowing that it was better that it remain unspoken. It hung there in the air anyway, a hint of a scent long since gone. _Alive..._

Lestrade interrupted the silence. “Any idea of the location?”

“Where you found me?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “No, of the bodies.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. There's no telling what he would have done with them. He could have disposed of them neatly or set them up somewhere, staged for all the world to see.”

Lestrade conferred with his notebook. “And how about-”

“I think that's enough for one day Greg,” John interrupted smoothly.

“Of course,” Lestrade agreed. “Just let me know when you're ready for the rest of it, okay Sherlock?” He stood awkwardly at the door until Sherlock finally jerked his head at him in confirmation.

 

They listened to Lestrade's footsteps down the stairs, his goodbye to Mrs Hudson, and the slamming of a door as he got in a car.

“Well,” John said finally. “That was... interesting. More tea?” he asked, getting up with his own cup.

Sherlock shook his head. There were far more pressing things on his mind, things that refused to be locked in a room in his mind palace and stay there until he was ready. Probably because they knew he'd never be ready.


	17. Chapter 17

“He kept changing the rules,” Sherlock whispered, more to himself than anyone, but it seemed John was intent on hearing.

“What's that?” John called from the kitchen. When it was clear Sherlock wasn't going to repeat himself, John gave up on the tea and returned to his chair to listen.

“It was all just a game. But he kept changing the rules.” He looked at John mournfully. “I couldn't win because he kept changing them.”

John only nodded, not wanting to interrupt.

“He made me choose,” Sherlock continued. “So I did. I played along, and it was awful, but the only thing that made it any bit less awful was that one would live. Except he went and changed them. After lying to me. It's not fair!” he wailed.

John shook his head, but still didn't say anything.

“It's like that stupid show you made me watch, where they're having a race, except the one character has lead boots, and the other one hops on a rocket or something as soon as it starts, leaving the other in the dust and wondering _what the hell_ is going on.” Sherlock saw John wince, unused to hearing him swear. That area was John's forte.

“I'm the one with the lead boots. So the next time I don't even bother to run, but I still get screwed over,” he continued bitterly.

He was silent for a minute, looking for words that he knew would never come, simply because they didn't exist. No number of similes could explain his experiences to John, and even if there were, he wouldn't want to do that to him. John had already been through enough.

“It's like he expected me to paint a Van Gogh or Picasso, but all I have are finger paints. And then to top it all off, he turns the light out and I'm in the dark. All he ever did was set me up to fail, just to break me that much more. It's all a fucking game to him, and he just changes the rules for fun.”

It was only then that Sherlock realized he was crying, precariously close to sobbing and wailing, an utter mess on the couch with his broken arm and fading bruises, skin etched with healing cuts that would soon just be scars.

He could feel John looking at him, entirely unsure of what to do. If Sherlock was him, he'd have no clue what to do either.

Sherlock figured John would just leave, go make tea or something, come back later when he was calm so they could take about it like adults. Wouldn't have blamed him if he did, after all, it's what he would have done.

Which was why Sherlock was so shocked when he felt arms around him, holding him tightly, reminding him that there was still someone who wouldn't turn off the lights, who wouldn't fill his boots with lead.

“Shh...” John soothed him, rocking him like he'd done in the night when he'd awoken from nightmares filled with horror and death.

But instead of hushing, Sherlock only sobbed louder, hiccups adding to the mess. He tried to shrink away from John, knowing that he was disobeying. _Oh god what will he do?..._

John must have realized this, because he stopped hushing Sherlock. “It's okay. Let it all out. It's okay...” he soothed, rocking Sherlock still.  


	18. Chapter 18

They stayed like that for a while, the second time he'd done that, once when remembering, and now when sharing.

“I hate finger painting,” Sherlock admitted eventually.

“Yeah?” John asked.

“I didn't like getting dirty. Or sticky.”

John laughed at that.

“And painting.”

“Oh yeah?” John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock nodded. “It's all... subjective. Creativity and...” he waved his hands about.

“Right. I know exactly what you're saying.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “Really.”

John nodded. “It's not something that you can quantify and perfect. And you're bad at it.”

“No I'm not. How would you know?”

John smirked. “Just a guess.”

Sherlock scowled and shied away from John.

“Well you are a dreadful singer.”

John paled. Sherlock briefly wondered if he'd said something wrong.

“You heard that?” he whispered.

Sherlock examined his cast, picking at the edge of the padding.

“Umm... yes.”

John swatted his hand away.

“Stop picking at it. You seemed to like it though. Every time I sang your heart rate lowered and the EEG calmed down.”

Sherlock pulled away from John's prying hands and stuck his tongue out.

“Well, I was in a coma at the time, so it's hardly my fault. When does it come off?” he whined as he tried to reach an itch.

“Never if you keep doing that,” John said pointedly as Sherlock tried to get his other hand up it to scratch.

Sherlock scowled. “I'll take it off on my own.”

“No. You won't,” John replied forcefully.

Sherlock stared him down. John was stubborn, but so was he.

However, when it came to medical things involving Sherlock's health, John always seemed to prevail.

“What if it gets wet?” he countered.

“Water proof,” John smirked.

_Damn. Not going to win this one._

“John,” he announced. “Fetch the markers.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Sherlock scowled. “I wouldn't have said it if I was kidding.”

“Right,” John muttered, heading to his desk to dig through drawers. “Permanent?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“Colours?”

“All of them.”

John returned with a fistful of markers, Sherlock's cast just waiting to be decorated.

“I knew the white would come in handy,” Sherlock declared.

John scoffed. “Please. You were comatose when they chose the colour.”

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“What are we drawing?”

“Everything,” he declared. “Chemical formulas, molecules, things from cases, umbrellas, jam, cake to taunt Mycroft, mobile phones, lab equipment...” he shrugged. “The usual stuff.”

John laughed. “Right. I don't even want to know what the unusual stuff is.”

Sherlock grinned mischievously. “No. You really don't.”

John began with a green and blue, eventually ending up with an earth, adding a sun.

“This way you'll know the earth revolves around the sun,” he said, pointing to the little arrows he'd drawn.

Sherlock scowled.

“And what have you drawn?”

Sherlock pointed to a tiny rabbit with glow lines, a little pink mobile next to a pink case, and a remarkably accurate picture of Mycroft with his umbrella, except that he looked about 50 lbs heavier than he was in real life.

“That's... um... good.”

Sherlock laughed. “I can't wait until he comes over to intrude. Draw a cake next to him.”

Grinning, John obeyed.

Sherlock etched a scarf that went all the way around his wrist and moved on to chemical formulas and molecules. There was no need for John to know what molecules they were. It would be his little secret. And if he was humming while he drew? Hardly on purpose.

 

Sherlock went to bed that night pleased with the artwork. He didn't even try to remove the cast for a whole week. And that was progress.

They both knew it would be a long recovery, one not at all helped by Sherlock's stubbornness and his inability to admit anything was wrong, but they'd get there.

Eventually.  


End file.
